


Scotch and Coffee

by lechatnoir



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the whispers of revolution and drunken kisses paired with a artists touch and the smell of oil paint and watercolor that doesn't seem to fade away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oil Paint and Magnolias

It is the sun glaring into the wide open room, white walls tinted with the scent of glass and wine, of whispers of a revolution , of bedsheets rustling, little kisses peppering thighs, necks , lips. 

I  
The first time they met, Grantaire was seven, Enjolras the same, only born a few months later then him. They had formed a friendship that was based on a multitude of trying to rip each other's heads off and going off on trips that involved skipping the pointless school classes that held no meaning to them and wandering around the city, taking in the sights and sounds that were amplified by their 7year old minds.

They had dreamed of a city of their dreams.

ii.   
When they meet again it is twelve years later - Enjolras is a revolutionary in his own right, Grantaire a cynic and a artist. 

They clash and the sun beats down on their backs as they meet with the rest of Enjolras little group - Les Amis they call themselves - they meet and discuss and worry for the future of their city, of the political corruption that runs rampant in the streets.

(Enjolras worries, Grantaire laughs and drinks and it's a wonder they don't kill each other then and there)

iii.  
The third time they meet, it is at a museum during a art exhibit. 

Enjolras is clad in browns and reds - a scarf the color of blood is wrapped around his neck and he hasn't been sleeping for these past few weeks but he can't seem to understand why or what's bothering him but when he sees the familiar head of dark curls he can't help but smile and raises a hand in greeting towards Grantaire who seems to be breathing paint and old canvas, mixed with oil and wood and glass.

It is the first time that Enjolras sees the young man sober and what seems to be a genuine smile on his face.

iv.  
Grantaire notices his Apollo stumble and watch the crowds move and shimmer like a interested cat who gives off a look of annoyance so that no one will go near it but he knows better and approaches him anyway , taking note of the bags underneath Enjolras' eyes and the way that he can barely hold himself up on his own two legs. 

So he decides to ignore the rules and walks up to his old friend and take his hand into his own.

(He doesn't comment on how cold it is , or how thin Enjolras' fingers were, almost nothing but bone instead of skin)

"C'mon, I'll take you out for coffee."

Apollo nods and follows his cynic, a warm , tired smile laced onto his face.

v.

"You know if you keep on worrying like that, you're not going to get anything done, Apollo" 

His voice is absent alcohol and his mind is clear for the moment , and yet it seems as if his words had no impact on the young man who sat across from him, absentmindedly stirring the sugar into his coffee.

Sighing, Grantaire shrugged his shoulders before placing his hand - palm up- on the table.

Enjolras looked up and took it and they figured it was a small start to wherever it was that they had with each other.


	2. Absinthe Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which hospitals and coffeeshops bring them together and rip them apart like glass puzzle pieces.

q  
I.  
It was one summer day, up in the flat above the streets - pale white colored walls with the sunbeams filtering through like iridescent ghosts - that they realized that, perhaps they meant something more to each other rather then just, the term of 'friend'.

They wake up - limbs sore and minds shaken and groggy, the memory of the night that has passed slowly pieces itself together like a broken glass bottle - too many jagged ends that don't make any sense and few pieces actually fit together.

They had met at the coffeeshop, held hands - it was a olive branch, an apology for all of the insults and cruel words that they had exchanged, back when they were young and seven years old, for drifting apart and slowly becoming invisible to the other, for attempting to erase the other's existence because there was a hollow hole in their chest cavities, as if someone had taken their hearts and ripped them out, laughing and grinning - with warm eyes and a sense of confidence.

They will learn how to build, how to destroy, how to make each other rise and submit, how to live again, waking up from the stasis that they have fallen into for so many years.

They will try to recall the broken bottles that held secret messages, try to decipher what a look meant to the other or why their eyes shone with tangible joy, and marvel at the simplicities that seemed to fill them with a old rosy haze that made the dull pounding in Grantaire's head go away and kept Enjolras' nightmares at bay.

It had started with a simple gesture of friendship - they were linked , regardless of what they thought otherwise, or how cynical Grantaire's theories may have been, how swept up Enjolras got by the politics and patriotism that he believed in so much - they were bound by threads of gold and red that merged and intertwined and perhaps they knew other from another life.

ii.  
Their first fight occurs when they are both nine years old and they get odd looks from the other children, hear hush whispers that sound like nails scratching against the wall from the nearby adults and even their teachers. 

They don't care though, not at first. They were the best of friends, as if they were attached at the hip from birth and yet they could not care what others said because they were Grantaire and Enjolras and everything was blue and gold and red and orange and perfect.

It's only when Enjolras hears that Grantaire has been beaten up because he was a hotheaded idiot that couldn't keep his mouth shut when someone had scoffed at Enjolras and a fight had ensued, and really, he does not need any sort of saving, thank you very much and the fact that Grantaire had ended up in the hospital - the hospital, of all places!- infuriated Enjolras because they didn't even agree on the same goddamn political ideas or anything of the sort and here he was , pacing a hole through the floor because his best friend (they still don't know how they had become friends in the first place) was in the hospital and it was because of him.

He only actually has the courage to go into Grantaire's room once he hears his name being called out in a weak, tired voice and he can't stop his angry words from flowing out of his mouth - brittle and cold and he can't fucking look at his friend who's looped on morphine and bandaged up like a mummy, a crooked smile on his face as he laughs and laughs and it's infuriating.

"You're a idiot, and a drunk and I hope, you end up homeless and starving one day, R because that was fucking stupid of you!" 

He gets another smile in response and doesn't notice the small flinch that his words have enticed from Grantaire - ever the actor - and a quiet laugh as he speaks, his voice quiet yet loud and Enjolras sits down next to his bed and his body is shaking, teeth gritting and knuckles turning white as the words wash over him.

"Well I had to, they were ruining your name, Apollo"

iii.  
Grantaire doesn't know why Enjolras keeps him around, why,he even spares him a glance or a nod or even a simple 'hello'.

He knows he's a drunkard and a artist and a idiot , but it's one thing to know things and another thing to feel things that mess up your head and he shouldn't care so much but he does, and it's been so long since they've talked and he missed Enjolras.

So when they had finally left the coffeeshop, they had laced their hands together - like when they were younger - and walked down the street, the hustle and bustle of the evening work crowds faded into the background , like static noise that they soon ignored.

"Hey, Apollo?"  
"Mm?"

"Do you think we can do this more often?"


	3. Sparrow Nests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their days are filled with a warmth that they've never actually known, building up memories with trinkets and things that need not to be labeled but they sort through them all the same

I.

They don't notice it but they gradually fall into a pattern of sorts.

It ends up consisting of meeting up at the coffeeshop, holding hands while they recalled their days and weeks and sometimes months if they got swept away in projects or ideas or idle dreams that leave them pondering and curious and they lose their grip on time and measure their days in coffeecups and inconsistant texts.

(Grantaire thinks that his days are bland and not entirely saturated with life , almost as if they were painted with watercolor paints and a gallon of water , rendering them barely visible, when Enjolras isn't there)

(Enjolras thinks that his days seem to blend into a mundane cycle, like grinding up coffee beans until they all look and feel the same, all powder and bitterness when Grantaire isn't there)

ii.

The first time he falls in love it is with the philosophies and ideas of the free thinkers, of the Enlightenment era , of old history books that are laden with dust and paper- thin pages that are slowly turning yellow.

He doesn't realize that he has built himself a wall that it nearly impossible to climb over and Grantaire thinks it's a bit of a joke and that he should be able to scale that wall and see his friend again, warm blue eyes and blonde curls that his fingers like to get themselves tangled in when their afternoons are lazy and quiet.

(He realizes soon enough that when it is politics concerned, he is nothing but an empty space).

He leaves the apartment with a soft 'click' of the door closing and Enjolras doesn't realize how much time has passed until it grows dark and his eyes are tired.

There is no radio playing , no sound at all, no scent of opened paints, no easal or canvas, no unruly mess of curls or smile to greet him.

It starts to pour outside as if someone had placed a bucket for the sky to cry into and instread olit had knocked it over, spilling the water that was cold and unforgiving, and he had begun to slowly worry.

iii.  
He find himself walking alone in the rain along the cobblestone streets , hood pulled over his eyes as he lets the music wash over him and he muses to himself as to how to paint his Apollo again, because blues and reds and oranges simply won't do and there needs to be something _more_ , something vibrant but Grantaire can't put his finger on it, not yet.

He doesn't hear the car that swerves off the road and the screech of the tires, but he smells the smell of rubber skidding on asphalt and it makes his eyes water before he feels a impact and -

Enjolras wakes up screaming and sweating as he stares at the ceiling of his apartment and panics, chest heaving and heart beating like a bird about to convulse and beat itself senseless against a glass window pane in attempt to get out.

He hears the creak of the door open and Grantaire stumbles through, humming to himself and seemingly oblivious to his presence before he latches onto him and he laughs quietly, warm and rumbling against Enjolras' ear. 

"Do you really miss me that much, Apollo? I was just out to get some milk and beer, that's all. "

Enjolras answers with a kiss and it just becomes some sort of routine and they think that they can make it work.

iv.

The second time he falls in love it is with a cynic with a mop of unruly curls and eyes that are green as grass and he marvels how he doesn't notice before and it's odd but it's warm and he figures political theories can wait for a bit. 

It's raining and windy but it's warm when they're in his apartment and it's simple kisses and whispered nothings and maybe it will work.


	4. Sleeping Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the sound of the wind howling and the words being beaten into his head but then his Apollo comes and things seem to calm down but there are nerves that are like a minefield and he doesn't think that he can take much anymore.

i.

He’s not used to demons creeping at the corners of his mind – he prefers the taste of alcohol on his lips, sweet nothings whispered in his ear and the hum of a radio whizzing away in his empty, paint-stained apartment.

(He remembers shouts and cold silences, stone cold stares that laugh in his face , that say ‘You’re not good for anything, you worthless little piece of shit.’ , that wait to push and kick and trample him until his ribs crack and his skin is a palette of blacks, blues and yellows in the harsh lamp light overhead the family dinner table, where a black eye will be the equivalent of ‘You can eat today, because you’re not pissing us off too much’ )

He shakes his head and takes a sip of the scotch that’s been sitting next to him as he tries to paint – it’s a windy day, with the _pat pat pat , tap tap tap_ of the wind battering its worn body against the window panes like a lost lover yearning to get back into the warmth – he smiles as his phone lights up and the screen flashes with the typed words - _‘Is it alright if I come over , R ?_ \- and he responds swiftly, putting his paint soaked brush in between his teeth (it’s more efficient if he types with two hands instead of one, less spelling errors that way, or so he says ), before putting said brush on top of the buckets of paint that lie open on the floor, and steps, swaying and laughing to himself because it’s as if he’s dancing a tango with someone whom he can’t see and maybe it’s his demons coming back to play.

(He rubs his arm gently, where there is a black and blue bruise that is slowly fading, and smiles to himself because he knows that maybe he escaped from it all, the stone glares and bitter words that follow him to his dreams, with only the alcohol to keep them all at bay. ) 

 

ii.

The doorbell rings and he puts down the bottle of scotch on the table near the doorway and he only has so much time to prepare before he’s greeted with an armful of Enjolras and it’s not like he doesn’t expect to be greeted in some sort of way - _it’s Enjolras, after all_ \- but he doesn’t expect a hug out of the blue.

Stumbling a bit, he laughs and hugs him in return, burying his nose in the crook of Enjolrass neck and he thinks he can deal with this little arrangement of theirs and it’s _peaceful_ , with no rushing or worry as if there is a revolution brewing outside their doors with a armed cavalry sent with canons to drive them out and shoot them down.

(He wants to ask why or how or when did they fall from ‘friends’ to ‘best friends’ to ‘let’s gradually just live together but are we together like a couple or?’ but he doesn’t because it’s irrelevant and instead he lets his Apollo press a kiss to his forehead and wander over to his couch, where he makes himself at home, stretching out like a cat while Grantaire goes and sets the kettle because knowing Enjolras, he’d want some sort of tea or coffee or something hot to drink and they’d make small talk that way – that’s how it would usually go) 

Enjolras watches quietly, observant as Grantaire moves around, but there’s a certain tired look in his eyes that usually isn’t there – R looks tired, as if he hasn’t been sleeping, hasn’t been functioning properly.

(It’s as if there are demons hounding him and he can’t sleep anymore) 

He notices the way Grantaire’s hands shake and he gets up from where he is, takes his shoes off and pads on over with socked feet to the kitchen, where he gently takes R’s calloused hands

(firm to the touch because he works with wood and the brushes that he paints with as if they are his lifeline and if he softens his gripe on them he’ll lose his lifeline and it will be all over for him, his escape will become a jail) - into his own and kisses them gently. 

The radio croons an old love song from the 60s and it seems to be alright, and they learn how to breathe again slowly, with the wind howling outside the window.

iii.

They end up wrapped up in themselves on the couch, limbs tangled and it’s a lazy sort of thing – they’re both sleepy and half awake and wonder how they can even make coherent words ramble out of their mouths when in reality, it should be easier to just kiss the problems and scars away but that’s not how they functioned, not how the world worked. 

(Enjolras knows this because he remembers coming to R in the dead of the night, bruised and battered and maybe there are even limbs broken but R doesn’t ask any questions, just fixes him a cup of something warm to drink and holds his hand, always.) 

He strokes Grantaire’s hair gently, fingers playing with the dark brown curls as he wraps the warm duvet over them more securely and mutters quietly - “Want to talk about it, R? “ 

“No”

He smiles and nods, and they slowly fall asleep as it starts to rain and the wind simmers down its anger into quiet howls instead.

iv.

They wake up later, groggy and there’s a bit of a bad aftertaste in their mouths but it’s fine because they kiss each other ‘good morning’ even though it’s evening but that doesn’t matter – they yawn and stretch and it feels warm, too warm actually.

(It’s actually not that bad, they’re just complaining for the sake of complaining) 

Enjolras doesn’t expect Grantaire to want to talk about it, but he does, with a bottle of scotch for him and a cup of coffee for Enjolras, on the coffee table as they sit next to each other on the couch, watching the evening traffic zoom by like little fireflies from the windows of Grantaire’s flat. 

“It’s that time, you know, when I remember how they’d beat me and laugh at me, spit in my face and say that I should do something useful with my life, something that would bring in money instead of art, because no one fucking needs art anymore, it’s just a fucking waste, right!? Aren’t I a fucking waste of space , Apollo?” 

He laughs, and it’s bitter and cold and it’s all the cynicism that rises up in his throat like bile but it’s the truth.

(Those have been the words that they have beaten into him for years on end) 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just takes his hand, and squeezes.

The minutes tick on by, elongated and it’s as if they would never see the clock strike 6 o’clock but it does.

( _Tick tick tick_ )

(The silence stretches on, until Enjolras speaks again, and he looks at Grantaire, eyes blazing with sincerity and it’s as if he’s some leader of a rebellion, of youth and hope and Grantaire wants to believe, if even for a second, that Enjolras means what he says) 

“You’re not a waste of space, Grantaire. “


	5. Broken Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're angry words filled with venom and he doesn't know why he's suddenly filled with such animosity towards Enjolras but he just is and he can't stop himself from spewing the utter nonsense that he knows isn't true . 
> 
> (He's gone too far with the dance with his demons, both old and new and present).

i.

They fall into a pattern of lazy kisses and early morning cups of coffee in Grantaire’s flat.  
(He doesn’t comment on how Enjolras seems to have moved in with him after that night, with the rain and the bruises that seemed to pop up out of nowhere and left him sore everywhere, as if he was beat by not only the words that should have at this point, have fallen on deaf ears but it’s as if he was ripped to little shreds by invisible dogs that wanted him dead).  
Sometimes, he can’t stand the man who is like a god of light encased in his apartment, moving as if he had always belonged there, as if he had always lived there. Sometimes the lack of alcohol in his system made him snappish, made him angry and he wanted to destroy every single canvas that was there in his studio - _because you can’t stand to look at his face when he’s the embodiment of perfection and look at you, a hopeless, love strung drunk who has nothing for himself_ \- he wanted to tear everything down.   
So instead, he lashes out with venom and snide smiles that hold nothing but bitter ice tinged with blood as he bites his lip and grits his teeth in anger as he watches the other man who is sitting on the other end of the couch, humming an old song to himself.   
“You know, Enjolras - you don’t have to baby me, I can take care of myself, and I don’t see why you decide that you can just _freeload_ off of me for the past week or so.”   
He would be lying to himself (and he is, in fact, lying because he doesn’t want to be the one to blame for the way that Enjolras reacts to him) when he thinks that he doesn’t see the way the blonde flinches slightly – it is an slight imperfection in his perfect mask of care and worry but Grantaire thinks he can see past it, see that he’s just a pity case and that he really doesn’t need him – at the drunk’s words and he lets out a laugh (it’s shaky, at first) before getting up from his spot on the couch and narrowed his eyes at Grantaire – “Who said that I was babying you, R ? If I was babying you, I’d go out and stock up on food and take away the alcohol that you cling to like a kid does to his pacifier. “

“You don’t tell me what to do, you’re not my mother, E. “   
(Besides, if you were her, you’d want me dead. Not like anything’s different really, you probably _do_ want me dead anyway.)

ii.

The door slams and the air is filled with the angry buzzing sound of an army of hornets that are about to drill a hole into his head and he thinks he’s about to be shattered into a million little glass shards and he thinks about how much of a fucking idiot he is.

( _”Oh look at that, little Grantaire who can’t do anything right! Run along and go get mommy some liquor from the store around the corner else I’ll cook up dinner with you and this lovely sharp knife that I bought today!”_ )

He doesn’t know why he’s remembering those past days of cold rooms, with no friendly heater rattling or the ever present stench of vomit and blood and he doesn’t want to think about it.

Instead, he opens up a new box of canvas, opens up a bucket of black paint, and grabs a handful of it, watching as it oozed and slipped in between his fingers like a lifeline, or a heartbeat.  
He lets out a laugh as he starts to toss it onto the canvas, paint getting everywhere like a rabid dog tearing into the flesh of a another animal – perhaps a bird or a rabbit. 

(He remembers the sound of a vase crashing against the wall, hands scrambling to cover his ears because mom and dad were fighting again and he needed to make himself small, needed to think of a magic box where no one could touch him or hurt him or say mean things to him and threaten him. ) 

He’s breathing heavily when he finally realizes that his clothes are half covered in black paint smears everywhere and his hands are covered with a thin layer of paint that is starting to slowly crust and dry and crack, like the skin of a reptile who has been out in the sun for far too long. 

(He doesn’t realize or notice the dull ‘thud’ that occurs outside of his door as Enjolras hasn’t left, hasn’t broken the stony silence that has now enveloped their little world and he sits outside of Grantaire’s studio, fiddling with the keys whose edges are far too sharp for his fingers.) 

iii.

When Grantaire was a little boy, he would dream of a magical box filled with a world of paintings and pretty figures – elephants and circus acts and a bunch of boys and girls who had a dream to make the world a better place.

He remembers going to the local library whenever he could, picking up the books with the large paintings of angels and saints and he thinks that when he falls asleep he dreams of a little boy with a crown of gold hair and kind eyes who is secretly an angel of disguise who keeps watch over him and who keeps him safe.

(He soon learns that there’s no such thing as guardian angels and tosses every single book out, but not before he takes a black permanent marker and scribbles out all of the face, while the tears seem to pour out of his face and he doesn’t know _why_ he’s crying but he just is and he doesn’t _like_ it but he can’t handle the disappointment when the blows start coming towards him in the form of kicks and punches and slaps. He soon grows jaded and the liquor bottle seems to offer up more companionship then some made up boy in his head)

(When he meets Enjolras he thinks that maybe his angel had finally come to him.) 

If only it were true.


End file.
